


this unexpected summer of the heart

by Lee_Whimsy



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Endless fluff, Fix-It, Future Fic, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-25 10:50:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lee_Whimsy/pseuds/Lee_Whimsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One drowsy August evening, a dwarven king wandered into the Shire and knocked on a familiar green door. "I knew you for a few bleak months and thirty years later I wake up wishing that you were beside me. I am surrounded by my kin and kingdom, but even in Erebor I am lonely for you." Thorin/Bilbo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. jasmine and blackcurrant scones

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Tolkien invented most of it; Peter Jackson and company did the rest.

The front door was bright with fresh paint, and Bilbo noticed a smear of green on his hand when he shooed the children out of doors.

"Look after the baby, Frodo!" he shouted after them, but Frodo was already out the gate and halfway down the road, splashing through puddles, hot in pursuit of Mr. Gamgee's oldest boy with young Pearl Took tumbling along behind him. "And get back here in time for supper!"

No answer. He sighed and wiped his hand on a dishrag, letting the door stand open. Bag End could do with an airing out, and the storm clouds had drifted away hours ago, tugged along by a warm summer breeze. Good riddance to rain and children both, Bilbo thought. The party was in two days, and he had more than enough to keep him busy without Frodo and his friends raiding the pantry and tracking mud all over the floor.

He spent the afternoon baking scones—which would have been simple enough, if he hadn't eaten so many blackcurrants from the mixing bowl that he had to go to market and buy more. Then there was the dusting to be done, and the floors washed, and Frodo's clothes mended, because the silly boy had gotten himself tangled up in a gorse bush on one of his rambles, and torn his best cotton shirt all to ribbons. It was all comfortably familiar, and he hummed while he worked, the tune of an Elvish song that he'd heard in Rivendell so very long ago.

Late afternoon drowsed on to evening. When Frodo slipped into the kitchen at last, he brought the smell of damp earth and jasmine with him.

"Missus Bell gave me some flowers from the garden," he said, standing on tip-toe and peering up at the tray of scones that Bilbo had just taken out of the oven. "Because Hamson pushed me into a ditch. Can I have a scone?"

"If you want," Bilbo said. "But we're having roast pork and apples for supper, with almond pudding for afters."

"Um. I guess I'll save the scones for later."

"Sensible lad. Get a vase and some water for those flowers—yes, just like that. Where do you think we should put them?"

"On the windowsill," Frodo said, after some deliberation. "That way the breeze will make the house smell nice."

"So it will. Now, go and wash up, and then you can help set the table."

It was nice, having a second pair of hands in the kitchen, and Frodo was a patient child: he didn't mind peeling apples, or endlessly stirring a pot of soup. Tonight, Bilbo gave him a battered copy of his grandmother's almond pudding recipe and set him loose on cupboards, trying not to smile as Frodo carefully checked and re-checked every line of the instructions, small brow furrowed with concentration.

The meal was excellent, as meals always were at Bag End, but the pudding was the most excellent of all, and not just because of the way Frodo beamed when Bilbo told him so. They were just drying the last of the dishes when the doorbell rang. Frodo dropped his dishrag and raced for the door, feet sliding across the polished floors. "I'll get it!" he shouted.

Probably young Hamson Gamgee again. His visits were often coincidentally close to mealtimes, but Bilbo pretended not to notice. In fact, he usually sent Hamson home with a loaf of bread or a freshly baked pie to share with his brother and sisters, on the pretense of _clearing out his pantry_ or similar nonsense. The Gamgees had four children to feed, after all, and Bilbo was a bachelor with more money than he would ever have reason to spend.

From his place by the sink, Bilbo heard the sound of the door opening, and then an astonished shout. "Uncle!" Frodo cried. "There's an army of dwarves at the door!"

Bilbo made a small noise of satisfaction as he returned the last of the dishes to its rightful place. Last week it had been a troop of elves, and the week before that Frodo had brought home a pair of talking ladybugs. Doubtless he got his imagination from the Brandybuck side of the family.

"Well, tell them they missed supper," he said. "But they're welcome to stop in for scones, if they want any."

Frodo relayed the message, and Bilbo heard a murmur of voices at the door, too deep to be the Gamgee children. Curiosity piqued, he stepped out into the hallway. "Who is it, then?"

"I told you," Frodo said, his voice soft with wonder. "It's dwarves."

The door had been thrown wide open. On the doorstep stood Thorin Oakenshield. There was a little more gray in his hair than Bilbo remembered, and the lines in his face were deeper, but other than that he'd hardly changed at all.

"At your service, Mr. Baggins," he said.

Bilbo didn't faint. Not this time. He had been dreaming of this moment for more than thirty years, but this was better than he'd ever dared to hope, because Fili and Kili were standing behind their uncle, and Bofur was leaning against the gate, chatting with a wide-eyed Hamson Gamgee and being gawked at by the neighbors. It was all too good to be true.

"Bilbo Baggins, entirely at yours," he said, just in case he wasn't hallucinating, and stepped aside to let them in.


	2. king under the mountain

Thorin was ever the son of Thráin and grandson of Thrór, a dutiful prince and a dutiful king. But maybe it was his curse to never be entirely whole; maybe there was some fault in his head or his heart that made him long for things out of reach. As a child he had dreamed of the wilderness beyond Erebor, the freedom of strange folk and foreign lands. Such childish fancy taunted him through all the long years of his exile, his soul sick with the knowledge that a monster slumbered in Erebor.

Now he was home at last, the dragon dead and his people growing mightier by the day. All the wildest hopes of his father and grandfather had been realized. Thorin was a king, and wanted for nothing but his burglar—his small, insignificant hobbit, the dearest treasure of his heart.

In the first years after the battle, other matters occupied his time. Erebor was a ruin of skeletons and broken stone, but he dragged it back to something of its former glory, and did the work of generations in a few short decades. His favorite tutor had always said that there was nothing a dwarf could not fix.  "Prince Thorin, one day we will have it in us to rebuild Arda Marred," he would say. "In the meantime, you can at least mend your grandmother's helmet before she finds it was you who stole it."

Thorin had repaired the helmet, and snuck it back into the armory before anyone else noticed it was gone. He repaired Erebor, too. That was how history would remember him.  _The year 2941 of the Third Age. The dragon Smaug killed, and a great battle fought before the gates of Erebor. Thorin II claims his grandfather's throne, and the kingdom under the Mountain is renewed._

The lords of Durin's line hadnever been scribes, and Thorin himself had no patience for records or writing. He left nonsense like that to Ori. But if he were to put ink to parchment, his own account would read like this.

_2941\. Home. Father and Grandfather are avenged. What is left of my family will live in peace. They say that I will live, too. It doesn't feel that way._

_Bilbo left._

_I never told him that I—_

* * *

In the end, it was an offhand comment that brought Thorin to the Shire.

Dís ruled the Blue Mountains in Thorin's name, and their messengers wore smooth the roads between Erebor and Ered Luin. It became a familiar route, if not an easy one, and Thorin asked only his fiercest, sturdiest couriers to attempt it. One such dwarf, an old campaigner of Dain's, made the journey more than a dozen times before he returned with wedding braids in his hair.

"Who is she?" his brothers demanded. "What of her family? Why did she not come home with you to the Mountain?"

Never known for their humility, dwarves bragged of their families even more than treasure or fine craftsmanship, and the campaigner's shyness was strange. His blush, visible even through his bushy sideburns, was even stranger.  Speculation ran rife throughout Erebor. Thorin only learned the truth of the matter from Dwalin, who had been widowed in battle many years ago. His wife had been one of the burned dwarves of Azanulbizar, and he was a gruff but patient listener when it came to matters of the heart.

"Well, how would he explain it?" Dwalin said. "The laddie went and married a Tuckborough girl. From the Shire," he added, when it became clear that Thorin had no notion what he was talking about.

"I hadn't realized any dwarven families lived in the Shire," Thorin said, frowning.

"They don't."

Understanding came sudden and painful. Jealousy followed hard behind, but it wouldn't do to show disfavor to a loyal subject. He spoke of the matter to no one but his sister, and in her return letter she promised to find the dwarf a place in her own guard. More than three decades passed before Thorin saw him again.

He came home at last in the dark days of autumn. He was alone, his shoulders slumped, his eyes red-rimmed and downcast. This time, his brothers asked no questions.

"I thought we had time," he said. "She was always—she was so strong. And her great-grandfather lived to be 130, and I thought—"

He shook his head and fell silent.

Thorin, not known as the most sympathetic of kings, heard none of this. But Dwalin did.  He was the one who took the dwarf aside and heard the rest of his unhappy story. It was Dwalin, of all the old Company, who first learned that hobbits did not live far beyond one hundred years of age. It was Dwalin, never patient with numbers or calculations, who realized that Bilbo, if he was still alive, would be ninety years old.

It was Dwalin who brought the news Thorin.

At first, Thorin refused to believe it. Surely there had been some mistake. Bilbo Baggins was strong and bold and fearless. It was impossible to imagine him frail with old age, worn down to fragile bones and uncertain breaths; no heart so strong could fail so soon. Thorin demanded to speak to the widower himself, but what he heard was little comfort.

Yes, of course he knew of Bilbo Baggins—he was a household name in the Shire, and honored among the dwarves. No, he had never met him. Tuckborough wasn't the same as Hobbiton, and besides, King Thorin had ordered that Master Baggins be left in peace. No, he hadn't heard anything of his death, but he'd cared little for local gossip when his wife was on her deathbed.

Thorin dismissed him after that, barely civil.

And that spring, as soon as the roads were passable, he left for Hobbiton.


	3. back across the map

It was a hard winter. Thorin kept to himself in the days after his unwelcome revelation, but he couldn't escape his duties entirely. If his sharp-eyed courtiers noticed his misery, they said nothing, but his nephews were just as observant and not nearly so polite.  Kili teased the story out of Dwalin within a week, and soon Thorin found himself under siege.

As wandering children, homeless and friendless but for their mother and uncle, his nephews had learned how to charm strangers, to cajole unfriendly men into offering them food or shelter. Even in those days Thorin had been helpless to refuse them. Now, Kili commanded Erebor's armies and Fili stood at Thorin's right hand, his heir and most powerful lord. To their credit, they rarely pressed their advantage.  When they did, Thorin lost.

"We're going with you," Kili said one cold December morning. They were standing on the ramparts overlooking the Front Gate, the River Running frozen beneath them, the distant banners of Dale tugging and snapping in the wind.

"Don't be an idiot." Thorin cuffed Kili on the head, none too gently. He still wore his hair unbound, with only a few dark braids framing his face. It scandalized the more traditional dwarves who came to Erebor, and lessened his appeal among his unwed peers: Kili had fought and killed to preserve Thorin's reputation, but he was profoundly unconcerned with his own.

"I mean it, uncle."

"So do I. You can't shirk your duty for a lark across the mountains."

Kili didn't need to say it, but that had never stopped him. "Like you?"

"You're my heirs. We can't all go and get ourselves killed."

Kili bit at his lower lip, drumming his fingers fast and uneven against the stone battlements. "Uncle—"

"No."

"There's something you should know."

"No," Thorin said again, because he had the suspicion that he knew what Kili wanted to talk about. It hadn't escaped his notice that neither of his nephews had married, or indeed formed any noticeable attachments at all, and not for lack of offers.

Kili, unsurprisingly, ignored him.  "Fili's going to abdicate. He doesn't want the throne and neither do I. Give Dain the regency, and we can all go west together."

"Absolutely not," Thorin snapped. _"_ How dare you—"

"In a century or two it won't matter," Kili said, ruthlessly. "We'll all be dead, and no children after us. Dain's son is a brave lad, and he's your namesake, and he'll be a better king than my brother."

Thorin wanted so badly to be angry. But it was going to be a hard winter, and something in his chest ached—an old war wound, no doubt. Was Bilbo looking out his own window? Was he tracing frost on the glass, or was he buried deep in the frozen ground?

Kili was right. Thorin would take no wife, and he would sire no children. His nephews would follow him in this, as they had all their lives; as they had followed him to Erebor and to battle and to victory.  No longer would Erebor pass from father to son, line unbroken. Perhaps that was not such a tragedy after all. 

"Come along, then," he said at last. "You can write the letter to your cousin."

Kili grinned, and together they came in out of the cold.

* * *

The snowmelts flooded the River Running, and the world softened with the promise of spring. Flowers grew up in the land that had once been the Desolation, and soon after Thorin left Erebor without fuss or fanfare. He gave no public explanation, but his lords and subjects knew. So did Dain, called from the Iron Hills to serve as regent, and the men of Dale and Esgaroth, whose fathers and mothers had told them stories of Thorin Oakenshield and his Company, and of the halfling who had traveled with them.

This time, Thorin wanted no escort, and he said so. As usual, his nephews ignored him. He had never doubted their love for him, even if there was no room in their hearts for his kingdom.  Bofur travelled with them; of all the Company he had known Bilbo the best. Dwalin came, too, and half a dozen of Kili's best soldiers. Thorin bore the defiance without grace or gratitude, and if the roads west were more dangerous than he expected—if goblins still lurked in the mountains, if the weather was foul and miserable, if in the end he needed his brothers in arms—he said nothing of it.

So they made their way back across the map.  At last they came to Bree, where Thorin had first met Gandalf so many long years ago. Their clothes were travel-stained but their coin was good, and the local innkeeper made them welcome: an absentminded young man who flustered easily and had no notion that he was entertaining royalty.

"Dwarven blacksmiths are highly respected," he said. "And in shorter supply than they once were, though I've no notion why. Finding work won't be any trouble. Why, I dare say you could set up a forge of your own in a few years, if you kept at it!"

Dwalin made an ugly noise in the back of his throat, but Thorin only nodded and gave his thanks. He was not an exile anymore, and his king's pride was not so easily wounded as that—not by a kindly fool who wouldn't know any better if the heir of Númenor was sitting at the bar, or if Durin himself had taken a room at his inn.

"Our thanks," he said, and dragged Kili and Fili upstairs to their room, recognizing all too well the looks on their faces.

"We worked in Bree for ten years," Kili burst out as soon as Thorin shut the door. "Ten years, and we went hungry in the winters, and sent every penny back to you and mother. And Master Barliman says—he says—"  It was useless.  He was helpless with laughter. Fili was more composed, but his shoulders were shaking, and Thorin's mouth curved into a small smile.  Time wasn't always the enemy, it seemed. It healed and hurt in equal measure.

But Thorin hadn't crossed a continent to linger in Bree, and he left before dawn the next morning, his nephews and Bofur trailing in his wake. Dwalin and the soldiers would remain at the inn, at least for the time being.

"To keep from scaring the locals," Dwalin said with a toothy grin. "Wouldn't do to give them a turn, poor soft things. We'll be waiting when you come back."  _Whenever that might be_ , he didn't add. Two days or two months, it made no difference, and they all prayed for the second.

Thorin drove their little group hard, but the Shire was a forgiving country. They traveled though shady valleys and sprawling green forests, and Bofur picked bouquets of scrappy wildflowers from ditches as they walked, handing them to housewives and giggling children with flourishing bows. The days were bright, the nights soft and sultry—even the rainstorm that met them on the outskirts of Eastfarthing tried its best to be inoffensive—but Thorin's temper worsened as the days dragged on, and he fell to silent brooding, ignoring the stares and murmurs that dogged their steps. He could have asked any one of those gossipy, disapproving folk about Bilbo Baggins, but somehow he couldn't stand the thought.

 _Old Mr. Baggins? Why, he died years ago_ , they might say, and what would he do then?

It was a sweet summer evening when they crossed into Hobbiton. "Wouldn't you know it," Fili said. "We're being followed."

Kili turned to look and saw a tiny Hobbit boy clambering over the fence that bordered the road, his curly blond hair tangled and his eyes wide with curiosity. "Aren't you afraid that we'll eat you?" Kili asked, just for the sake of stirring up trouble. "Or steal you away to work in a forge? That's what your mama thinks, no doubt."

The boy shook his head. "You're Mr. Baggins' dwarves," he called back, though from a safe distance. "You wouldn't eat anyone."  He paused, then added thoughtfully: "Do you take apprentices? Only if I ran off and you told Ma that you'd kidnapped me, then I wouldn't be in trouble when I came home. And I could be a blacksmith, instead of a gardener."

Thorin, ahead of them, had stopped dead.

Kili cleared his throat several times before he could speak, and even so his voice was unsteady. "You know Bilbo Baggins, then?"

"Sure I do," the boy said. "Everyone does, don't they? He's rich as a king and curses in four different languages and a long time ago he went off on an adventure. Everybody says adventures don't bring anything but trouble, so I guess that's you."

It took a surprisingly long time for Kili to remember how to breathe.

"That's us," he managed at last. "The very best kind of trouble."

"I knew it," the boy said, triumphantly, and when they asked him for directions he led them straight up the road to a familiar green door.

Thorin took a ragged breath and knocked.

He had prepared a grand speech. He had all sorts of fine words at hand, practiced endlessly through the long weeks of their journey. But he had not planned for the solemn little boy who appeared at the door, or for the way his heart leapt when Bilbo's familiar voice echoed through the entryway.

Or for the sight of his thief, impossibly unchanged, standing before him at last.

"At your service, Mr. Baggins," he said.

If Bilbo said something in reply, Thorin didn't hear it. No sooner had he stepped over the threshold than Thorin caught him up and held him tight, arms wrapping around his shoulders with bruising affection.

They did not kiss, but love burned away the empty air between them.


	4. the boy from the brandywine

Frodo had been an orphan for five months.

His parents drowned on a soft spring morning, but at first he hadn't understood what that meant. No one told him anything, as if saying _they're dead_ would make it true; it was Bilbo who told Frodo that his mama and da were gone and weren't coming back.  After the funeral, Frodo lived in Buckland with his mother's family, and everyone knew he would be happy there. By Shire standards the Brandybucks were rich and powerful, and more than a little odd, but they were kindly folk.  They took Frodo into their midst without question. After all, what was one more face among dozens of siblings and cousins, nieces and nephews?

But Frodo ran away once or twice a month, a small solemn boy drifting barefoot across the Shire, and somehow he always ended up at his uncle's door. Bilbo never turned him away. The first time it happened, a small army of Brandybucks led by Frodo's Aunt Menegilda stormed Hobbiton to demand his immediate return. The second and third times, Menegilda sent Bilbo a strongly-worded letter on very expensive stationary. After that, the Brandybucks left them alone.

By Midsummer's Day there was a new quilt in the spare bedroom at Bag End, and Bilbo had outfitted his young cousin with a walking stick and a sturdy little rucksack. By late July, Frodo spent more time at Bag End than Brandy Hall, and Bilbo twice met with Old Rory Brandybuck to talk about the possibility of adoption.

"Impossible," Rory said the first time. "My Gilda dotes on the lad, and he's far more like Primula than that oaf she married.  Bless their hearts," he added, hastily.

The second time, he harrumphed and said "The lad does seem rather fond of you, doesn't he? Might as well let him stay in Hobbiton until harvest season, at least."

Frodo missed his parents. He missed the colors of his mother's favorite dress and the wooden toys that his father used to carve. He missed their little hobbit hole on the edge of the Brandywine River. But Uncle Bilbo told him tales of dwarves and elves and great battles, and he didn't believe in bedtimes, and he made sweeter blackcurrant scones than anyone else in the Shire.

So life was good that summer, or at least as good as an orphaned child and a retired burglar had any reason to expect.

Then an army of dwarves appeared on Bilbo's doorstep, and things got even better.

* * *

All respectable folk had long since gone to bed, but the windows of Bag End were open, light and laughter spilling out into the night. If any of Bilbo's nosy neighbors had sneaked into the garden and peered into over the hedges, they would have been scandalized. Dwarves, for shame! Bilbo Baggins was known for keeping strange and disreputable company, but dwarves were the absolute limit.

Fortunately, the only person who would have dared to spy on Bilbo Baggins had been sent home to his mother hours ago, along with a large bowl of almond pudding and strict orders to share it with his sisters and brother. Hamson obeyed, but he made Frodo swear a solemn oath not to run away on an adventure without telling the Gamgees first.

Frodo promised. But there were no adventures that night. The dwarves hadn't travelled all the way from Erebor just to vanish again, and instead they settled in for supper, though Bilbo complained halfheartedly that he'd just finished putting the dishes away. In the midst of all the commotion—greetings and warm embraces, the dwarves shucking their travelling gear and leaving it lying about the house, everyone wandering in and out of the pantry at will—Frodo stole five scones before anyone noticed. It was the dwarf in the hat who spotted him, but he only winked and said nothing, and Frodo liked him instantly.

"Which one are you?" Frodo asked. "No, wait—I can guess. Uncle tells me the stories all the time."

"Does he?" the dwarf said. "Guess away, then."

Frodo frowned in concentration, ticking names off on his fingers. There was Thorin, the king, the one who had introduced himself at the door and hadn't taken his eyes off of Bilbo since. Then there were the two princes, Fili and Kili. Frodo couldn't remember which was which, but he thought Fili might be the one with the scars on his face. He recited the rest of the familiar names, sing-song. "Dwalin and Balin and Bifur and Bofur and—oh! You're Bofur."

The dwarf grinned. "Right you are. Your uncle really does talk about us, then?"

Frodo nodded. "My favorite story is the one with the trolls. But the dragon stories are good, too. Did you fight the dragon?"

"I saw the dragon, at least," said Bofur. "Twice. From a not inconsiderable distance."

"Did he really breathe fire?"

"Quite a lot, rude creature that he was."

"You're funny," Frodo said, smiling up at him. "And I like your hat."

The hours passed. Bilbo might not have believed in bedtimes, but Frodo was a young hobbit; even on long summer nights, when bullfrogs croaked along the Bywater and fireflies floated over the gardens, he was sound asleep before midnight. Dwarves, however, were a special occasion, so Frodo was still awake in the early hours of the morning, sitting on the floor by the fireplace, wrapped up in the soft cotton of his favorite quilt.

He didn't understand all of the conversation, but he liked the cadence of it. He liked to hear his uncle talking and laughing. He liked the dwarves and their strange accents.

Especially the one with the hat.


	5. old winyard 1296

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No wargs were harmed in the making of this chapter, much to Kili's disappointment.

It was three o'clock in the morning, and Bilbo was justifiably worried about the state of his wine cellar.  Hobbits rarely drank anything stronger than wine or ale, and Bilbo didn't keep spirits in the house, except for one very dusty bottle of brandy. As far as the dwarves were concerned, however, alcohol was best drunk from the bottle and _by_ the bottle, and they had been at it all night.

"Last one," Fili said, returning from the kitchen with a bottle of 1296 Old Winyard in one hand and a battered scone in the other. Bilbo hoped that he meant the scones and not the vintage.

Fili handed the bottle to his brother and briefly contemplated the pastry. "Here, Frodo—catch!"  He tossed it across the room, and grinned when Frodo snatched it out of the air. Three bites and a scattering of crumbs later, it was gone. 

"Thank you," Frodo said, mouth full. "They're much better than mama's."

Fili grinned. "You'd better not let her hear that."

"She can't," said Frodo. "She's dead."

Kili, who had just triumphantly popped the cork out of the wine bottle, froze. It would have been comic under any other circumstances.

"She died on the river," Frodo added. "There was a boat, and it tipped over. She drowned. Do dwarves have mothers?"

"Yes," Fili said, suddenly gentle. "We do."

"What's your mama like?"

"Very strict," he said. "And very strong. With dark hair and dark eyes, like Kili. We haven't seen her in a long time, though. She lives in the Blue Mountains to the west of here."

"Are you going to visit her? Is that why you came?"

"We came to visit your uncle," he said. "But if Thorin permits it—"

"I will," Thorin said. He was sitting with his back to the bay window, Bilbo curled up beside him. "Dís would have my head if I kept you from her."

Bilbo was pressed so close that he could feel the rumble of Thorin's strong voice, and he shivered as Thorin toyed with a lock of his curly hair, calloused fingers rough against the skin of his neck. A scattered collection of furniture had been dragged into the room, but somehow they'd all ended up sitting on the floor, undignified and graceless.  It was habit, Bilbo supposed—a quiet reminder of months of campfires and keeping watch. Those days on the road were his only memories of the dwarves, but everything else in his life, before or since, seemed small and distant in comparison.

"Does your mama have a beard?" Frodo asked. He was eyeing Kili's scruffy face with frank suspicion. "Uncle Bilbo says that all dwarves have beards, but I don't think I believe him."

"Kili's always been a great disappointment to our family," said Fili, straight-faced. "Mother has a lovely beard."

Kili scowled. "See if I share any of my wine with you, brother."

"Oh, it's your wine, is it?"  Bilbo was tempted to march over and snatch the bottle away from both of them, but Thorin was a warm, comfortable presence beside him, and more than once it had occurred to him that Thorin might vanish the moment Bilbo let him go, like a daydream or a will o' the wisp.

"I beg your pardon, Master Baggins," Fili said, and stole the bottle back from Kili. " _Your_ wine. And quality stuff, too."

Frodo, losing interest in the conversation, wandered over to where Bofur was sitting, a pile of Bilbo's books and manuscripts beside him. "Don't read that one," Frodo said, pointing to the heavy tome that Bofur had just picked up.

"Hello to you too, lad," Bofur said. "Not tired yet?"

Frodo shook his head. "Not even a little."

"And here I'm dead on my feet. Tell me about this book that I shouldn't be reading, then."

"It's _Lore of the First Age_ ," Frodo said obediently. "It's a book of sad stories. Mostly people dying. You wouldn't like it."

"Why not?"

"Why would you read sad stories when you could read happy stories instead?" Frodo asked, making a face.

"You pick one, then."

Frodo lit up and scampered out of the room. A moment later, there was a crash and a small yelp from the direction of Bilbo's study.  Thorin tensed, halfway to his feet in an instant, but Bilbo tugged him back down. "It's nothing," he said. "The lad's growing like a weed. He'll spend the next six months figuring out where his knees and elbow are."

Sure enough, Frodo reappeared several minutes later, disheveled but whole. "I broke the vase on your desk, uncle," he said, a few slim books clutched to his chest. "I'm sorry."

"The big one, with the paisley pattern?"

Frodo nodded miserably.

"Good lad!" Bilbo said, looking very pleased. "My aunt Camellia gave that to me on her hundredth birthday, and I've been trying to get rid of it ever since. Any cuts or bruises?"

"No." Frodo hesitated. "Does that mean you're not angry with me?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I have more ugly old vases that you could break in a dozen years, although you're welcome to make the attempt. Which books did you pick out?"

"Um. The one about Durin the Deathless, and _Gundabad Tales_. Then _Nogrod and Belegost_ , and your old poetry book."  Frodo plunked the books down beside Bofur and began flipping through them, carefully pointing out his favorite parts. It did Bilbo's heart good to see Frodo so outgoing and quick to make friends. By Shire standards, the dwarves were grim and dangerous fellows indeed: even Bofur, with his silly hat and crinkled-face grins.  But Frodo seemed oblivious.

"He's a brave boy," Thorin said, echoing Bilbo's thoughts. "He asked Fili about his scars. Over supper."

"Oh, dear," Bilbo said, twisting around to face Thorin. "I'll tell him to apologize—"

"Don't. Fili's proud of them."

Bilbo glanced towards the hearth. Fili was leaning against the wall, eyes closed. Kili was sprawled out close to the fire, like an oversized cat drawn to the warmth, his head pillowed on his brother's lap. He hummed tunelessly as Fili ran a hand through his hair. "No braids," Kili mumbled.

"I've given up trying," Fili said. "You uncultured savage." The firelight cast flickering shadows on the scars that ran across his face, four hideous gashes that had healed only imperfectly.

"He and his guards were returning from the Iron Hills," Thorin murmured, wrapping his arms more securely around Bilbo and drawing him closer. "They were ambushed on the road, hours away from Erebor. Kili spent the rest of that year slaughtering every warg pack that strayed within a hundred miles."

Bilbo had seen the brothers go to war once, when they'd been little more than children. He almost pitied the wargs.  "I don't suppose they would—" he began, but Thorin was staring across the room, hands pressed tight against Bilbo's shoulders.

Bilbo followed his gaze, politely baffled.  Frodo was sitting next to Bofur, a heavy book open in front of them. "Durin the Deathless they called him, known across the lands and ageless in memory," he was reciting. He had most of it by heart. "Though in the long waning of the Elder Days he died at last, and they raised a tomb for him in the great halls of Khazad-dûm, and that place was sacred ever after…"

"You taught him our history," Thorin said, voice odd. "He knows of my ancestors."

"He's good with names and languages," Bilbo said, trying to decide if Thorin was offended or pleased.   "In a year or two I might try to teach him Sindarin."

Thorin scowled. "Teach him Khuzdul, if you're going to—" he broke off, a faint flush coloring his cheeks.

Bilbo stared at him.  It was an absurd suggestion, as Thorin had obviously realized a moment too late. Bilbo couldn't teach Frodo Khuzdul any more than he could teach him to fly.  Bilbo vividly remembered the time when, in the early days of the journey to Erebor, he had asked if his companions might teach him some of their language. The question was met with blank, appalled silence, and it had fallen to Gandalf to explain the nature of Bilbo's innocent mistake. He'd never dared to bring it up again. Khuzdul was the sacred language that Aulë had given to his children, and they guarded it more jealously than any treasure.  Now, as before, he let the matter drop. Bilbo had long ago accepted that there were some distances too great to be bridged. Thorin was one of Durin's heirs. Bilbo was the son of a fussy gentlehobbit whose most notable accomplishment had been marrying Belladonna Took. Thorin was the king of his people, and Bilbo was a neighborhood curiosity among his own.  But neither of them were children, to fuss over something that couldn't be fixed.

"His line endured through war and grief, and five times an heir of Durin was born who was like unto Durin himself..."  Frodo finished the tale of Durin and moved on to reciting the genealogies, which he loved contrary to all reasonable expectations. It was probably dull as ditchwater to his audience, but the dwarves gave every appearance of rapt attention. Even Thorin was listening.  But soon Frodo was yawning, his voice growing softer, the names slurring together. 

"You tell the rest, uncle" he finally murmured, and Bilbo hadn't been reciting for five minutes before Frodo was sound asleep, huddled under his quilt, his breathing soft and steady.

"…thus the story will endure so long as his royal line," Bilbo ways saying as he lifted Frodo up into his arms. "And his heirs need never fear when Mahal calls them home, for they are honored in his halls. Oof. Soon you'll be too heavy for this, my boy."

Frodo didn't wake.  Bilbo carried him to the spare bedroom and tucked him in, draping the quilt over his small form. Even as a younger hobbit, Bilbo hadn't been the paternal sort; he was fond enough of his nieces and nephews, but he had never wished for children of his own. When Frodo had first appeared on his doorstep, Bilbo let him stay out of pity, not affection.  But already it was hard to imagine his life without muddy footprints on the carpet and pies forever vanishing from the windowsill. It would be a hard blow if Rory insisted that the lad return to Brandy Hall at the end of the summer.

He patted Frodo on the shoulder and turned to leave, but just as he was shutting the door behind him, a soft voice called "Uncle?"

"Yes?"

"Promise that you won't leave without telling me first."

Bilbo's heart ached. "I'm not going anywhere, Frodo. I would never leave you alone."

"That's what mama used to say." Frodo buried himself in his blankets so that only the top of his curly head was showing in the dim light. "Good night, uncle."

"Good night, Frodo."

He returned to the dwarves. They were talking amongst themselves, something about messengers and the Blue Mountains, but Bilbo was too exhausted to pay attention. He sat by the windows, curling up beside Thorin without so much as a by-your-leave.  It had been so many years since anyone had taken care of him, he thought muzzily. Although the dwarves needed rather more looking after than he did. Whatever was he going to about his wine cellar?

"It will be dawn soon," Thorin said. "We should get some rest."

Bilbo forced his weary mind into action.  "You'll have my bed, Thorin," he said. "I'll kip in Frodo's room. I have a cot, and plenty of blankets, but only the one guest bedroom. Tomorrow I can see about—"

"Don't fret," Bofur said. "I'll do well enough on the floor."

Fili nodded. "Kili and I as well."

"Speak for yourself," Kili said. But then he grinned. "No, he's right. There were thirteen of us before, remember? I think I ended up sleeping under a table."

Unfortunately, going to bed meant getting up, and hauling the spare bedding out of storage, and getting undressed—it all sounded like such a bother, and Bilbo let his eyes drift shut instead. He was perfectly comfortable where he was, and the others must have felt the same. Predawn light was filtering into through the windows, and the fire burned down to embers, before anyone spoke again. 

It was Kili who broke the silence. "I think I'm getting old," he said, wincing as he sat up. "I ache. Everywhere."

"That's what you get for being reckless," Fili said. "If you could go a month without getting stabbed or breaking a bone or hitting your head..."

"If you're old, then I'm in my dotage," Bilbo said, rubbing his eyes. Had he fallen asleep? "We hobbits don't have the advantage of dwarven lifespans, you know."

"So we've heard," Fili said. "But no one would know it to look at you.  We wondered sometimes. About. You know."

"How inconvenient, if you'd come all the way from Erebor only to find me dead!" said Bilbo, laughing a little.  No one else joined in.

"The thought had occurred." Thorin's voice was flat.

"Oh.  Oh, I see," Bilbo said. "Yes. Well, it irritates my relatives no end. They were in the middle of auctioning off my things when I first got back from Erebor—"

"They did _what_?"

He had forgotten how terrifying Thorin could look when he was angry. "I got most of it back," he said hurriedly. "Didn't lose anything except the silver and some furniture. But my cousins have been waiting for me to die properly ever since, you see, and I refuse to oblige."

"Is that their notion of a proper welcome for hero returned from war?" Thorin demanded.  "Of all the low, contemptible—but I should not speak so of your family. Forgive me."

"Well, I don't like them much myself," Bilbo said. He forced himself not to think about the last time Thorin had apologized to him, when Bilbo had just been carried off a battlefield and Thorin had been choking on his own blood. It still felt wrong to hear such a proud king asking for anyone's pardon.

"Stubbornness is all well and good," said Bofur. "Mahal knows you're bullheaded as the best of us. But if I didn't know better I'd think you had a touch of elf-blood in you, you're that unchanged."

Bilbo made a face. "I wouldn't go that far. But it is—well, it is a bit strange. It worried me at first.  But I can't exactly go around complaining about my good forture, can I?"

"Indeed not," Thorin said.  And that was the end of that.

By the time Bilbo had fetched the spare bedding and set up the cot in the spare room, the clouds were pink with dawn, and the rest of the neighborhood was already stirring. Fili and Kili, on the other hand, hadn't moved an inch, still curled up by the hearth. Bilbo tossed a few blankets in their direction and let them be. Bofur claimed the cot and brought the stack of books along with him, unwilling to let his newfound treasures out of his sight.  Bilbo refused to blush when he showed Thorin into his bedroom, though he wished he'd done a better job tidying up.

"I'll be just down the hall and to the left if you need anything," he said as Thorin sat down on the bed and tugged off his boots. "Not that you would. Need anything, that is. From me. I'll be going now."

Thorin's face was in shadow, and his voice unreadable. "Stay," he said. "No point in waking Frodo. There's room for both of us."

"Are you sure you don't mind?"

Thorin huffed impatiently. "If I minded, I wouldn't have offered. Come to bed."

The words warmed Bilbo in a way that no wine could. He shrugged off his waistcoat and fumbled with the top buttons of his shirt, then slipped under the covers beside Thorin. He was too tired to bother with getting comfortable, or to fret about giving Thorin his fair share of the blankets. Thorin had never been shy about taking what he wanted.  "You came all the way from Erebor to see me," he mumbled into his pillow. "You have a whole kingdom to rule, and you didn't even know if I was alive. I don't understand."

"Go to sleep," Thorin said.

Bilbo almost obeyed, but he couldn't. He needed to know that Thorin would still be there when he woke up in the morning. "Thorin," he said, and the name was like a prayer. "Thorin. Tell me."

Silence.

"I knew you for a few bleak months," said Thorin at last. "And I still wake up wishing that you were beside me. I am surrounded by my kin and kingdom, but even in Erebor I am lonely for you."

"You've never even kissed me," Bilbo said. He couldn't decide if it was funny or sad, or something else entirely.

Thorin sighed. In one swift movement he rolled over, cradled Bilbo's face in his broad hands, and kissed him firmly on the mouth.

"There. Now will you go to sleep?"

Bilbo exhaled shakily. "Right, yes. Sleep."

Thorin tucked Bilbo close, tangling their legs together. Bilbo, accustomed to sleeping alone, worried that he might feel trapped or claustrophobic, but Thorin was a comfortable weight at his side, and he fell asleep to the sound of his slow, steady breathing. He dreamed of nothing in particular.

When Bilbo woke, afternoon sunlight was streaming in through the windows. He was alone, but Thorin's muddy boots were still lying on the floor, and his sheathed sword was slung over the bedpost. From the direction of the kitchen, Bilbo could hear the clatter of pots and pans, and the sound of familiar laughter.

It would be a fine summer day.


	6. good as gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know that according to book!canon, Frerin died near the East Gate at Azanulbizar, but the movie didn't mention him at all, so I don't feel too guilty for fiddling. Endless thanks to grav_ity for offering to beta this fic!
> 
> Disclaimer: Tolkien invented most of it; Peter Jackson and company did the rest.

Bilbo was still drowsing some indeterminate time later. He knew, as every sensible hobbit did, that beds were never more comfortable than in the lazy hour after waking, so he kicked the sheets down to the end of the bed and buried his face in the eiderdown softness of his pillow. Judging from the delicious smells beginning to waft through the house, one of the dwarves was cooking a late breakfast, and Bilbo was quite content to let them get on with it.

Sure enough, he soon heard someone walking down the hallway, and then the bedroom door creaking open. Moments later, the bed dipped as Thorin—it couldn't be anyone else—sat down on the edge of the mattress. "There's food if you're hungry," he said, and began rubbing small circles on Bilbo's lower back, his hand rough and warm against the thin cotton of Bilbo's shirt. "Eggs and bacon and a tolerable lake of tea."

Bilbo made a small happy noise, muffled by the pillow. "That sounds lovely, thank you."

"Did you sleep well?"

"Mhmf. Yes. But shouldn't I be asking you that?"

Thorin chucked. "You weren't such a polite host last time."

"I didn't love you so much last time," Bilbo said, drowsily sincere. "For someone so noble and handsome, you were terribly rude."

Thorin's hand stilled, and the last traces of Bilbo's sleepiness faded into sharp embarrassment. "I'm sorry," he said, sitting up and dislodging Thorin's hand in the process. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

But Thorin didn't look angry, or embarrassed. In fact, he was staring at Bilbo with something like wonder. "Do you have any idea," he said, "how very much I—"

But words seemed to fail him, and instead he tugged Bilbo up for another kiss. Thorin's lips were chapped and rough from weeks and months of travel, and his beard was scratchy, but Bilbo didn't mind. He wriggled closer and settled his hands on Thorin's broad shoulders, dizzy with the knowledge that Thorin wanted him like this, that he could touch and hold and love as he pleased.

"Breakfast," Thorin reminded him, when they finally pulled apart. "Else the children will come looking for us."

"Frodo's too polite for that," Bilbo said, and he felt rather than saw Thorin's smile.

"My brats, not yours," said Thorin. "Fili and Kili are shameless."

Bilbo laughed. "It's nice to know that some things haven't changed."

Eventually he dragged himself out Thorin's warm embrace and fumbled around for a set of clean, unwrinkled clothes. It was some time later that they finally made it out to the dining room, and by then most of the food had vanished.

"My pantry," Bilbo sighed, mournfully cataloging the remains of the magnificent spread that had been laid out across the table less than an hour before. "I don't suppose you saved a few rashers of bacon?"

"Good morning to you, too," Fili said easily. "And there's plenty of everything left in the kitchen."

Bilbo went to investigate, and returned with a more than satisfactory plate and an entire pot of tea. "Where's Bofur?" he asked, sitting down at the table between Kili and Thorin. "Still abed?"

"Not hardly. He was the one that cooked all of this. I'm useless in the kitchen, and Fili's far too grand for housework these days," Kili said, and yelped as Fili kicked him under the table.

"Says the spoiled little princeling who won't dig latrines."

Thorin ignored them both. "Frodo conscripted his new favorite dwarf into running errands with him," he said. "I hope you don't mind."

"Frodo does as he likes, and he doesn't need me fussing. I trust him to be sensible. Did he say what he was after?"

Thorin shook his head.

"Something to do with presents, I think," Kili offered. "Maybe he was going to a party?"

Bilbo took a moment to revel in the absurd wonder of the moment. Here he was, sitting and eating a shamefully late breakfast with two princes and the richest king in Arda, while his beloved nephew was dragging Bofur hither and yon across the Shire.

"Close enough," Bilbo said at last, hiding his giddy expression behind a cup of tea. "We're having an early birthday party tomorrow."

"Why early?" Fili asked. He stole the last two slices of bacon from his brother's plate, and smiled beatifically when Kili glared. "And if it's his party, why is he the one buying presents?"

"Hobbits give gifts to others on their birthdays," Bilbo said, and ignored the raised eyebrows that garnered. "Frodo was born on September 22, by Shire-reckoning—"

"The same as you," Thorin said.

Thorin remembered his birthday? "Yes," Bilbo said, reminding himself sternly that he was a grown Hobbit and not a blushing tween. "Just so. But I don't know if Frodo will be here come September, and he's popular among the Hobbiton lads and lasses. I thought a quiet little celebration couldn't go amiss, even if the Brandybucks have a proper party on the day itself. What boy wouldn't like to have two birthday parties?"

Thorin frowned. "You talk as if you have no say in the matter. Why? He's your family."

"Not officially. His mother's relatives took him in after his parents died, and I'm only his first cousin once removed. Or his second cousin once removed, on his father's side. I've no particular claim."

"But he spends all his time here," Kili protested. "And you're good as gold with him." His chair scraped against the floor as he got to his feet, and began collecting the dirty dishes—for no other reason, Bilbo strongly suspected, than to prove his brother wrong. Fili stood and began to help, and so did Thorin.

Between the three of them they soon had the table cleared, and the dishes in the sink. Thorin and his nephews worked well together, the coordination and easy movement born of long familiarity, and Bilbo did his best to avoid getting in their way.

"It's quieter here," Bilbo explained as they worked. "And Frodo gets more attention. He was an only child, and his parents lived a secluded life—or what passes as secluded for a bright young couple. Brandy Hall, on the other hand, is a madhouse at the best of times. I daresay he'll grow used to it eventually." The words rolled easily off his tongue. He'd heard them often enough from Rory and Menegilda.

Kili and Fili soon fell into an argument over the difference between a second cousin and a cousin once removed, and Bilbo poured himself another cup of tea, chuckling at some of Kili's more convoluted attempts to explain. Apparently neither of them had paid as much attention to their own genealogies as their family might have wished. Bilbo half-expected the conversation to end in a wrestling match, or at least with the brothers flicking soapy water at one another, but of course they weren't children anymore, no matter what their uncle said.

Thorin, however, still looked dissatisfied. He tugged Bilbo away from the good-natured clamor of the kitchen, and they settled down in the study. Bilbo had made vague attempts to tidy the room in the past, but all in vain; it was a perpetual clutter of books, maps, scraps of parchment and poetry. The only thing free of dust was a large empty space on the desk: all that remained of Aunt Camilla's paisley vase. Bilbo sat at the desk chair and nursed his cooling cup of tea as Thorin quizzed him on the details of legal adoption in the Shire, and the nature of the Shire's government, and the respective standing of the Baggins and Brandybuck families. Bilbo answered his endless questions as patiently as he could.

He tried not to show how much he hated the reminders that Frodo was only a temporary guest in Bag End, but Thorin must have noticed his distress. Eventually he nodded, and thanked Bilbo solemnly.

"I don't mean to pry," he said, never mind that he'd been doing just that for almost an hour. "But the child matters to you, and I want—I wish to understand.  I suppose I've grown too used to sitting in high state and dispensing justice as I see it.  But I cannot come it the tyrant here, and you must not let me bully you."

The Thorin that Bilbo had known would never have spoken so.  He was too proud and grim to make light of himself.  "When have I ever let you bully me?" he said, to hide his surprise.  "I'll have you know that I am a Baggins of Bag End, and not to be trifled with."

Thorin inclined his head solemnly.  "As I have learned, at my peril."

Fili and Kili were long gone, though Bilbo hadn't the faintest notion where they might have wandered off to. Quite likely they had the right idea. It was too fine a day to waste indoors.  "How about a walk?" he said presently. "We could meet the neighbors, or wander off to be solitary and disagreeable."

"As you like," Thorin said. "I came here for you, not scenery or good society."

"Are you trying to charm me, Thorin Oakenshield?"

Thorin raised his eyebrows. "I've been reliably informed that I'm as charming as a dying warg.  Or perhaps that was my harp playing?"

Bilbo almost choked on his tea. "Who in the world—"

"My sister has a sharp tongue.   Sometimes she carries on the childhood tradition by writing me rude letters."

"I see," Bilbo said, a little strangled.  _Your harp playing_ , he wanted to say, but he valiantly mastered the urge.  "What about your brother?" he said instead.  Thorin never mentioned him, but sometimes Fili and Kili told secondhand stories about their younger uncle and his death in battle. "What was he like?"

Thorin stood abruptly. "Do you want more tea?"

Bilbo's cup was still half full. "Yes, please," he lied, taking a few hasty gulps of the stone-cold brew.

Thorin stomped into the kitchen and returned several minutes later with two steaming cups. "Dís and I took after our father," he said, as he set them down on the end table. He didn't return to his chair. Instead he walked to the window and leaned against the frame, staring out into the gardens, past the crumbling stone wall and down the road beyond.

"Like our father," he repeated. "Dark, and proud, and desperate to prove ourselves. But Frerin was our mother's child. Father thought him too bright and merry, but he was the darling of the court, and his soldiers loved him. Everyone did. He had a dozen suitors before he came of age. And why not? Sister and I were skinny and swarthy, but Mahal might have made Frerin out of living metal. He was handsomest when he laughed, and he laughed all the time."

"What happened to him?"

"He was like gold," Thorin continued, as if he hadn't heard the question. Idly, he traced the lines of sunlight glowing on the burnished wood of the windowsill. "A precious thing. Everyone wanted to reach out and touch. I didn't see him die. But I dream of it sometimes, how he melted in the fire. There was nothing left to bury or mourn."  Thorin turned away from the window, light suddenly catching him in profile. He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry. It's only that—no one has said his name in my presence in years. Not since he died."

Bilbo believed him. No one would be brave or stupid enough to ask Fili about his little brother, if Kili was dead, and surely Thorin had loved Frerin just as much.

"Let's go for that walk," Bilbo said, soft in the silence that followed. "I'll take you on one of my rambles."

* * *

Ramble they did. Bilbo led Thorin along his favorite paths and down to his childhood haunts, all as familiar to him as the letters of his own name. They walked by the modest hobbit holes of Bagshot Row, and the cattails and willows that grew on the banks of the Bywater, and the grass that swept over low rolling hills. They explored quiet dusky woods, and the brooks that wound their way through the trees, tributaries that joined the Brandywine River as it flowed to the sea. Thorin spoke only rarely, but smiled often as he listened to Bilbo's stories, and even laughed once or twice. It was a vast improvement on the unhappiness that had haunted him when he spoke of Frerin, and the first stars were shining dim in the twilight before they began making their way back home.

"Supper will be waiting," Thorin said, as they scrambled over a ditch and onto the road, as muddy and haphazard as a pair of tweens. "I told Bofur to bring some coin to the market. By now we owe you for the contents of your pantry twice over. Besides," he added, "it wouldn't do to let your company go hungry."

"Perish the thought," said Bilbo, straight-faced. "No respectable hobbit would refuse dinner to a guest. Or several guests. Or thirteen guests and one very pushy wizard."  He kicked a small stone down the road. It skittered to a half right in front of the nose of a massive bloodhound who was drowsing in the soft tilled earth of Mr. and Mrs. Bolger's flowerbeds. The dog whuffed gently and resettled itself on the begonias, but perked up when Thorin knelt beside him and scratched him behind the ears.

"I didn't know hobbits kept dogs, at least not of this size. He would do for a small pony."

Bilbo watched Thorin fuss over the animal and tried not to smile. "Farmer Maggot breeds them to scare away children stealing his crops. But he treats them kindly, and they don't bite."

Rosamunda Bolger stuck her head out the window. "Mister Baggins?"

"Don't mind us, Rosie. My friend is just admiring Bull."

Rosamunda brightened at that. She had bought Bullroarer from Farmer Maggot when he was still a pup, and she was proud as anything of him. "He'll be seven years old this October," she said. "And he still keeps me company on market days, and when I go down to the river for washing."

"What a fine, loyal fellow," Thorin said, and didn't protest when the dog began licking his face.

"You haven't introduced me to your company, Mister Baggins," Rosamunda said, eyeing Thorin with open curiosity. She was one of the Old Took's many great-grandchildren, and that made her Bilbo's first cousin once removed. "Bell told me that Hamson said you were keeping a troop of dwarves in Bag End, but I confess I didn't believe her."

Bilbo looked inquiringly at Thorin, who nodded his permission. "Thorin, this is Mrs. Rosamunda Bolger, my neighbor and second-favorite cousin. Rosie, this is Thorin Oakenshield. He and his family have come to stay at Bag End for a little while." That was safe enough, and had the added virtue of being true; few hobbits had even heard of Erebor, much less knew the name of its king.

Or perhaps they did. "Oh, my," Rosamunda gasped. "Not the one that Adeline's husband told stories about, surely? Not the dwarf king from across the mountains?"

If Thorin was surprised, he hid it well. "The same, goodwife," he said, and gave Bullroarer one last affectionate pat before getting to his feet. "You have a lovely home, and a fine dog to guard it."

Rosie, to her credit, curtsied with great aplomb. "Well, your highness, if that isn't the sweetest thing I've heard all day." She paused. "Is that what I'm supposed to call you? Your highness?"

"Goodwife, this king is called Thorin Oakenshield. I won't stand on ceremony, not with Bilbo's second-favorite cousin."

Rosamunda laughed. "All of his cousins are his second-favorite, Mister Thorin," she said confidentially. "And all his Tookish nieces and nephews. He spoiled us with presents and stories when we were younger."

"Just as an uncle should," Thorin said. Bilbo made a mental note to ask Fili and Kili how Thorin had dealt with them as children. He tried to imagine a young Thorin listening to Kili babble nonsense words, or showing Fili how to work iron and swing a sword. Had he brought them presents from distant villages, or held them close and soothed them after nightmares? Had he tried to make up for the gaping hole in their family where Frerin should have been?

"—and never mind that we thought he made it all up," Rosamunda was saying, when Bilbo shook himself free of his wandering thoughts. "But now I see he was telling the truth all along. A king staying in Bag End! It's the most exciting thing to happen since Adeline ran off and married her soldier."

Bilbo said their goodbyes soon after that, dragging Thorin away before Rosie tried to invite them in for tea. Rosamunda had always been an inquisitive girl, and her daughter was every bit as clever and curious. Living in Hobbiton bored both of them to tears.

"I'll see you tomorrow at Frodo's party," she called as they headed down the road once more. "My Estella can hardly wait."

"Oh, now you're in for it," said Bilbo, once they were safely out of earshot. "Estella's a terror. She'll crawl all over you and cling to your legs and demand stories."

"I don't mind. Though if your Frodo is anything to go by, hobbit children are smaller than they have any right to be. If I don't watch where I'm walking, I fear I'll step on one." Suddenly Thorin frowned, nodding towards the stout hobbit who was glaring at them over a hedgerow. "Who's that?"

"That," Bilbo said, "is Mr. Burrows, our local blacksmith, and by far the most suspicious and disagreeable out of anyone you're likely to meet. I expect he's terrified of losing trade."

"Oh?" Thorin said. "If I've already gained his enmity, I might as well do as the innkeeper at Bree said, and take up smithing to earn my keep here."

Bilbo's tone was lofty. "There's no need for that! I'm quite a wealthy hobbit, you know. Tunnels filled with treasure, according to the Bagshot Row gossips. You could stay here and be a kept dwarf."

Thorin didn't reply, but he wrapped an arm around Bilbo's shoulders and drew him closer as they walked, pointedly ignoring Mr. Burrows. It was more than ten minutes later that he said, with no particular inflection, "Or you could come back with me to Erebor, and be a kept hobbit."

It was the obvious question, the subject that they'd all been dancing around since last night. Still, Bilbo wasn't ready for it. He faltered and came to a stop.  "Thorin, if you'd asked ten years ago," he said, "or even ten weeks, I'd have been packed and tugging you out the door before you could finish the question. But now—"

"You have Frodo."

Bilbo reached out and grabbed the king's hand. "I can't leave him. Not when he's lost so much already. I promised him, and I'm not cruel enough to break a promise to a child."

Thorin didn't reply.

"I'm sorry," Bilbo said. He felt like the most wretched sort of cad. "I don't mean to hurt you."

"Don't apologize," said Thorin at last, staring down at their joined hands. "It's enough to know that you're alive and well. No honorable suitor would leave his intended for so many years with no understanding, and no promise between them."

"Don't be ridiculous." Bilbo held on stubbornly when Thorin tried to pull away. "You left your kingdom to visit me. I could never ask for anything more." He hated the pain in Thorin's voice, but he had no notion what he could say to lessen it. "I do love you," he said again. "I wish that were enough."

Thorin managed a small smile. "It is," he said. "It's more than I have any right to expect."

When they at last came within sight of Bag End, Frodo came barreling out of the door and down the path to greet them. "Uncle!" he cheered as he careened into Bilbo's arms. "Bofur and I went down to the market, and I got presents for everyone that's coming to the party, and I even picked out one for Hamson's baby brother, the one that isn't born yet, because Missus Bell was talking about him yesterday and she said his name was going to be Samwise and I think that's a good name for a baby brother, don't you? And Bofur was telling me stories about _his_ brothers, and he said that maybe they could visit someday too, and I told him that we would have another party just for them, and won't that be fun? And—"

"You're a hobbit lad, not a babbling brook," said Bilbo, clapping a hand over Frodo's mouth. "You can tell me all about it once we're inside and sitting down, like respectable folk."

"But we're not a bit respectable," Frodo said, words muffled. "Everybody says so. Because you go off on adventures and keep company with dwarves."

Bilbo set Frodo back down and pushed him in the direction of the door, but Frodo dug his heels and peered around Bilbo to look up at Thorin. "Can you stay forever?" he asked, hopefully. "You can even come to my party if you want. I got a present for you, too."

"I thank you for the invitation," Thorin said, solemnly. "And for the gift."

"And you'll stay?"

"Until late September, perhaps."

Frodo smiled. "I'm glad," he said, and wriggled free of Bilbo's grip to give Thorin a quick, impulsive hug. "You make Uncle happy."

He darted back into the house, but Thorin remained at the gate, as still as a statue.

"I think he likes you," Bilbo said, fond and happy and a little bit sad, all at once. He took Thorin by the hand once again, and led him up the steps. Supper was waiting, and Frodo had stories to tell.


	7. glissando

The morning dawned cool and soft, fog drifting in over the lake and settling on houses and hedges.   From the front steps of Bag End, it looked as if the whole world had vanished overnight, and been replaced with a field of wispy grey clouds.  Frodo, wakened early by a restless dream, spent almost an hour curled up on a window seat beside the wilting jasmine flowers, staring outside.  His breath misted on the glass.

There was a ladybug—a little dot of color, as red as a cherry, with a dusting of tiny black spots along its back—climbing along the wooden sill.  It trundled over Frodo’s feet, oblivious to the potential danger, but froze in alarm when he wriggled his toes.

“Poor old Spot,” he said, gently scooping the little bug up and giving it a gentle pat on the back with his index finger.  “You should be out in the gardens.  You might get stepped on otherwise.”

He unlatched the window and swung it open with his free hand, leaning out into the open air.  It wasn’t raining, or even drizzling, but the air felt damp and clammy on his skin.  “Go on,” he said.  Spot obediently flew from Frodo’s hand and landed on a nearby pot of marigolds, vanishing into the riot of orange and yellow blossoms.  But even the cheeriest of the flowers in the garden seemed soft and faded.  Frodo wondered if some strange spirit had appeared in the night, and stolen all the color from the Shire. 

He amused himself for a while by telling himself the story of an elvish painter, a wanderer who hadn’t the coin for canvas or tints.  Instead, he stole through forests and sleepy little villages, taking reds from wild roses and blues from deep mountain lakes, greens from the mosses that grew soft on the trunks of trees.   He was just wondering what his painter’s name when he heard a door creak open and close, and he craned around to see his uncle step out of the master bedroom, yawning, wrapped in an old checkered dressing gown.

“You’re up early, my lad,” he said, joining Frodo by the window.  “Couldn’t sleep?”

Frodo shook his head.

“Bad dreams again?”

Frodo nodded.  “The river,” he said.  He drew two squiggly lines on the foggy window panes.  Then he added a little tiny boat in between them.  “The boat tipped and the water was over my head.  I couldn’t breathe.  Then I woke up.”

Bilbo put an arm around Frodo’s shoulders and kissed the top of his head.  “Do you want a cup of tea?”

“Yes, please.”                                                                                                           

Frodo pressed his forehead against the cool glass, thinking of all the elves in his uncle’s books and wondering which ones his painter was related to.   He listened absently as his uncle puttered around in the kitchen, opening cupboards and rummaging through the pantry and hanging the kettle over the hearth.   “Uncle, what would you think of a wandering elf?” he called.

“That depends.  What sort of elf is he?”

“A painter.  He sings the colors out of flowers and paints pictures with them.  Then he sells them to lonely travelers, or grand old nobles in stone castles.” 

Bilbo hummed in a thoughtful sort of way.  That was what Frodo liked best about living in Bag End.  In Brandy Hall, the grown-ups ruffled his hair and laughed when he told them his stories, or called him a silly little lad, or scolded him for wandering so far and thinking so wild.  (“One day you’ll run off into the forest, and get caught up in a spell or a strange elvish song,” Menegilda would say. “And then where would be, child?”

Frodo said “With the elves, I guess,” and was straightaway sent to his room for being pert.)

But Uncle Bilbo understood about stories.  Sometimes they told them together, when they were going to market together or rambling along the banks of the Bywater.   Frodo would start, and Bilbo would carry on for a while with seas and ships and fearless queens, and then Frodo would take up the telling again—on and on they would go, until they had both quite forgotten why their hero had set out from home in the first place.

Bilbo appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, a tea tray in hand.  “Does he have dark hair, or light?”

Frodo thought for a moment.  “Dark, so he can blend into the forest at night.  That way he won’t get caught by hunters and woodsmen.”

“Very sensible."  Bilbo sat down on the window seat beside him.  “Why does he have to steal his colors?  Surely he’s a wealthy lord, or the child of a powerful family.”

“He was.  His father was a king, and his mother was an artist, but then the king died in battle, and he had to run away.” Frodo took the cup that his uncle handed him, taking a daring sip even thought it was still steaming.  He glanced up at Bilbo, waiting for a reproach, but Bilbo didn’t say a word.  He only smiled a little and handed Frodo the cream pitcher.

“When I was your age, I was forever burning my tongue on tea,” Bilbo said.  “No patience, that’s what my father told me.  He thought I would grow out of it.  My mother knew better, of course.  She and I understood that hot cinnamon tea is too good to wait for.”

Frodo smiled at that, just a little.  Bilbo talked about being young like his childhood was practically a story itself, something dim and distant, but Frodo knew better.  The neighbors talked in hushed whispers about how Mr. Baggins had won a blessing from a wandering wizard at a tavern, and folk at the Green Dragon gossiped about how he’d been cursed by a vengeful sorcerer, for he never grew a day older.  Ever since Frodo had been a tiny child, still toddling around the banks of the Brandywine and charming his parents' guests, Uncle Bilbo had looked as he did now, with auburn hair and a light step as spry as any young hobbit.  His face was unwrinkled, except for the lines around his mouth that crinkled with he smiled.  Sometimes there were dark circles under his eyes, but only after late nights spent writing by lamplight. 

No, Uncle Bilbo wasn’t old. 

Frodo wrapped his fingers tighter around his teacup, the warm porcelain driving away the morning chill.   "When will Hamson get here?" he asked.

"As soon as breakfast is on the table, I warrant.  He can help us set up for your party."

Frodo bit his lip.  He was too old to be acting like a baby. He'd been looking forward to the party all week, and Bilbo had arranged it especially for him, and all his friends would be there.   He knew that he should be excited.  It was just—his mama had always loved parties.  She would have spent all morning fussing and laughing and making everything just perfect.  She would have shooed him away and sent him outside to play until the guests arrived.   Why couldn’t she have appeared on the doorstep of Bag End?  Why couldn’t she come visiting one bright summer day? 

"I don't think I want a party," he said.

Bilbo tried to ruffle his hair, but Frodo shrugged the touch away. 

Bilbo sighed.  "Oh, lad.  I’m sorry.  But the invitations went out last week, and all your friends are looking forward to it.   Pearl's father is bringing her all the way from Tuckborough, and Posco and Gilly and all your cousins promised they'd be here, and the Gamgee children are all so excited."

"I don't care," Frodo said, stubbornly.  "I don't want a party.  It’s not even my birthday.”

"Well, we'll see.  If it comes to it, I'll put about that you've taken sick—if you're stuck in bed and contagious, I don't suppose that anyone will bother you.  I'll post Bofur at your door, how about that?  He can stand outside and warn everyone off."

That should have made Frodo feel better, but it didn't.  It only made him feel guilty.  The dwarves had been excited about the party, too.  Bofur had spent hours helping him find presents for everyone, and Kili had even promised to braid his hair for the occasion.   Even Thorin had smiled a little, and said that he was looking forward to the celebrations—dwarves didn't have birthday parties like hobbits did, he had said.  

Frodo sniffled and rubbed at his eyes.  "I'm sorry, uncle," he said.  "I don't mean to ruin things.  I don't know why I'm so sad." 

"Now, none of that," Bilbo said, kindly but stern.  "No tears before breakfast.  Finish your tea, and then up you get.  You can help me make porridge."

Frodo obeyed, but he still felt small and wretched.   Even though Bilbo made his favorite kind of porridge, with honey and sweet cream.  Even though the fog was dissolving, and the sun peeping out bright and friendly through the clouds.  Even though Hamson snuck in through the open window, brandishing a stick and leaping indoors with a war cry, while Bilbo was doing the dishes.

"Out," Bilbo said firmly.  "I'll have no battles in my kitchen, thank you very much."

Hamson obeyed, once his warrior spirit had been satisfied by a handful of fresh strawberries.  "I'll see you this afternoon!" he called back to Frodo as Bilbo ushered him out the front door.  "I hope you got me a good present."

"I did," Frodo promised.

Thorin appeared only moments later, his hair tangled and his shirt half unlaced.  “I heard shouting.  Is everything well?”

Bilbo returned to the kitchen and patted him on the arm.  “Goodness, no.  We were attacked by a starving hobbit lad.  It was dreadful.  Wasn’t it, Frodo?”

Frodo nodded solemnly.  “He stole our strawberries.”

“I see.”  Thorin looked slightly abashed.

“Really, Thorin,” Bilbo said, spooning up another bowl of porridge and handing it to him.  “Of all the things to fuss about. We’re perfectly safe, I promise you.  The most dangerous criminal in the Shire is my cousin Lobelia, and she’s only a threat to the silverware.”

Thorin sat down to eat, quiet as a mouse—if mice had clinking metal beads in their hair and wore heavy leather boots everywhere, at least.  Frodo, bored with elves and painters, tried to imagine what Thorin would look like as a mouse.  It was a funny thought, and he slurped the last of his porridge to hide his smile.  He didn’t think Thorin was the sort of dwarf who liked being laughed at.   Not like Bofur, who was never happier than when he was teasing a laugh out of someone.  Or like Fili and Kili, who told Frodo wild tales and argued over who had killed more orcs.   Thorin wasn’t friendly like them.  He wasn’t mean, either.  He didn’t curse or shout or hit, like some of the cruel folk in Bilbo’s stories did, and he treated Frodo with a careful sort of kindness. 

But Thorin might steal Bilbo away one day, so that some dreary morning Frodo would wake up alone in an empty house.   He knew it could happen.  He remembered wandering for what felt like hours, calling for his parents—looking in all the rooms and then outside in the gardens, and at last down by the river.

Thorin, sitting beside him at the table, set down his spoon and pushed his bowl back.   “Thank you for breakfast,” he said to Bilbo.  “Is there anything I can do?”

Bilbo stood up on his tip-toes to kiss Thorin on the cheek.  Frodo watched the exchange with wide eyes. “You can roust those two slugs you call nephews out of bed, and send them down the road to the Gamgees’ house,” Bilbo said.  “It’s the one with the yellow door and all the flowers in the front yard.  Hamfast could use a few extra hands with the tables and chairs.”

“I’ll see to it,” Thorin said. 

“And when Bofur wakes up, ask him if he’ll lend a hand with the baking.  Oh, and—” Bilbo glanced at Frodo “—I think Frodo might have something for you, unless he’d rather wait for the party.”

Frodo brightened immediately.  “I’ll be right back!” he said, and raced off to the spare room where he’d hidden all his presents.  Thorin’s was the best of the lot, and Bofur had promised that the king would like it.  He spotted it quickly, and pulled it loose from the pile of wooden toys and baubles and books that surrounded it. 

It was a small harp, prettily carved and well-tuned, made to be held in hand rather than set on the floor.    Frodo couldn’t resist the urge to run his fingers back and forth along the strings, and the notes rose and fell through the small room.  He picked it up, carefully as he could.  He couldn’t imagine Thorin playing music of any sort, but Bofur had taken one look at the expensive little instrument and sworn that in the long-ago days before Smaug, Thorin had owned one just like it.  It had cost almost all of Frodo’s pocket money, and he’d had to borrow a few coins from Bofur to make up the difference.   But it would be worth it, so long as Thorin liked it.   If Thorin was content in the Shire, maybe he would never leave.  Maybe he would never take Bilbo away. 

He took a deep breath and rounded the corner into the kitchen, clutching the little harp close to his chest.   “It’s for you,” he said, when Thorin said nothing.  “For my birthday.  I hope you like it.”  He held the harp out. 

Thorin took it, face unreadable.  “This was well done,” he said, tracing the carvings with his scarred fingers.  “You have some fine craftsmen in the Shire.”

“Bofur said you used to play," Frodo prompted.

“I did.  More than a century ago.  My mother was a harpist, and I learned at her knee.”  But still Thorin did not touch the strings.  “I thank you for the gift.”

“I thought maybe you could play something.  At the party.  If you wanted.”

“No,” Thorin said.  “It’s a kind thought,” he added, when Frodo slumped.  “But I doubt I could manage it, even if I tried.”

Frodo swallowed hard.  It didn’t matter.  Thorin was a great warrior king, after all.  Why would he want an ugly little harp from a backwater like Hobbiton?  Like as not there were a dozen harps made of pure gold in the treasuries of Erebor.

A soft string of notes echoed through the small room.  Frodo looked up, startled.

“That’s a glissando,” Thorin said, frowning in concentration. “And it should be easy.  It’s not.” 

Kili bounced into the kitchen, looking delighted.  He was only half-dressed, his hair unbound and messy, but his grin was blinding.  “Uncle, you’re playing!”

Thorin muttered something unpleasant.  Kili ignored him.  “Mother will be so happy.  How in Mahal’s name did you bully him into it, Bilbo?”

“Me?  I don’t have anything to do with it,” Bilbo said.  He filled two more bowls with porridge and handed one to Kili.  “There’s strawberries and cream on the table, and fresh bread with fig jam.  Leave some for Fili and Bofur, will you?”

Kili sat down at the table and began eating with gusto.  “That’s a fine harp,” he said in between mouthfuls of porridge, looking admiringly at his uncle’s newest treasure.  “Where’d you get it?”

“Frodo gave it to me.  For his birthday, as I understand it.”

Kili shook his head.  “You hobbits really do beat all.  Giving everyone else presents, and not getting any in return.” 

“Not everyone’s as spoiled as you,” said Fili as he wandered into the kitchen, entirely dressed and looking less disheveled than anyone else in the room.  “What’s all this, then?”

“Thorin’s playing the harp!” Kili sing-songed, at the same time Thorin said “Your brother is asking for a backhand.” 

But he didn’t sound all that angry, and he was holding his new harp so very carefully.  A few minutes later, when no one was looking, Frodo stole the last of the strawberries and shyly handed the one to Thorin.  Thorin accepted it with great solemnity.  “Thank you,” he said, for the second time that morning.  “And again for the harp.  I couldn’t imagine a finer birthday present.”

Frodo’s heart lightened a little in his chest.  If anyone was going to steal Bilbo away, he supposed, it might as well be someone like Thorin.   And maybe—just maybe, if he was very good and promised not to complain—Bilbo would let him come along too.  He had a rucksack and a walking stick and everything, after all.  Surely it wasn’t so very far to Erebor. 

But there was no point in thinking such things, he reminded himself.  It was like wandering elvish painters, or mama coming back to visit Bag End.   Some dreams were just too good to come true.


	8. the party tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *nervously shuffles back onto AO3* Um. I have no excuse. But if you celebrate Thanksgiving, this is my holiday present to you! And if you don't celebrate Thanksgiving, this is just one of those at-long-last updates for fics that everyone has probably forgotten about.

Whatever unhappy thoughts Frodo had been fretting over that morning, they were gone by the time the sun reached its zenith, and the birthday party began with good food and good cheer.

Hamfast and his sons, with the help of the two dwarven princes, had set up a handful of wooden picnic tables in the field that spread out below The Hill. An ancient tree with gnarled branches and a mess of green leaves towered overhead, offering cool quiet shade even in the heat of the day. When the first guests arrived, the tables were already laden with food and neatly-labeled presents, and Frodo was sitting on Bofur’s shoulder, carefully affixing colorful ribbons to the lower branches of the tree.

“That’s Pearl,” Frodo said, pointing to the tiny hobbit lass bounding towards them from the road. A taller, more sedate figure followed close behind. “And there’s her papa. He’s the Thain’s cousin, I think. So Pearl’s almost like a princess. She’s little but she’s tough. She follows me and Hamson everywhere.”

Bofur lifted Frodo down from his shoulder. “You go and say hello, there’s a good lad. I’ll finish prettifying the tree.”

Frodo took off like an arrow. He returned several minutes later, Pearl clinging to him like a giggling limpet. The Gamgee children abandoned their parents to join the fun, and soon they were all chasing each other another round and round the tree, darting through the field and scrambling under tables. Rosie Bolger and her daughter Estella arrived soon after, Bullroarer the bloodhound trotting along beside them. He stood nearly as tall at the shoulder as Estella did, but disappointed all the children by curling up in the soft grass underneath the tree and promptly going to sleep.

“He’s boring,” Hamson Gamgee said, nudging the dog with one foot. “Can’t he run around or fetch a stick or do anything neat?”

Estella glared. “He’s not one bit boring. He’s the cleverest dog from here to Buckland, and it’s not his fault he sleeps a lot. He’s just old, is all.”

“Can I go pet him?” asked Pearl. “He’s nice, isn’t he?”

“Of course he is. He’s doesn’t bite anybody except for rude gardener boys,” Estella said, and grabbed Pearl by the hand. “Come on. You can give him an apple and then he’ll like you.”

“I’m going to be a blacksmith, anyway,” Hamson said as they left him behind. “Who cares about your stupid old dog?”

Paladin Took was hovering to one side, keeping an eye on his daughter and occasionally glancing at the dwarves; Bilbo took him aside for a quiet conversation. “They’re not dangerous in the slightest,” Bilbo assured him, out of earshot of the rest of the gathering. “Quite respectable, as dwarves go—”

Paladin waved him off. “Don’t fret, cousin. Likely they’re all troublemakers of the first order, but I don’t doubt they’re friendly enough. You wouldn’t have them around little Frodo, otherwise. Who’s the fellow with the frown and the fancy dark hair?”

“His name’s Thorin. He’s my—well.” Bilbo glanced over his shoulder to see Thorin kneeling down in the grass, talking to a handful of hobbit children. Frodo was standing at his shoulder, arms folded, looking crossly at his friends—as if one of them might steal Thorin away, if he didn’t keep a close enough eye on them.

Paladin whistled. “Not that foreign lord, surely? Adeline’s husband told stories about Thorin Oakenshield, but the fellow he was talking about was a king.”

“Yes, well,” Bilbo said. “He’s on holiday, as it were.”

“And the two handsome lads gadding about with your gardener and his wife?”

“Thorin’s nephews. Hamfast and Bell are quite taken with them.” This was a lie. Bell thought that Fíli and Kíli were sweet and charming; Hamfast thought they were addlepated.

“Respectable, indeed!” said Paladin. “You’ve got a houseful of royalty, by the looks of it. I should’ve had Cousin Ferumbras stop by and play the dignitary—a formal welcome from the Tooks of the Shire, and all that.”

“They’re not exactly here on official business,” Bilbo said. He could only imagine what might have happened if the Thain’s eldest son had dropped by Bag End that first night, while the dwarves were all busy drinking and raiding the pantry. Or that next morning, when everyone was still abed. How stuffy young Ferumbras would blush if he knew that a hobbit was dallying with the king of dwarves! 

But Paladin wasn’t nearly so old-fashioned as his cousin, and he was a good deal more perceptive than most of Bilbo’s extended family.  He grinned and clapped Bilbo on the shoulder. “Well, I’m jealous of your company, cousin. You’ll be off on one of your adventures soon enough. Young Frodo too, I suppose?”

“Would you let your child go gadding off into the wilds?”

“If I had a likely lad around Frodo’s age, I’d beg you to take him along,” Paladin said. “Or Pearl, if she were old enough. It’s good for children to see something of the world. I wish I’d had the chance when I was a boy.”

“No chance of it, I’m afraid. Frodo isn’t going anywhere. The Brandybucks would never have it.”

“Nonsense. Old Rory’d be delighted.”

“Delighted, yes. Right. Why not let his wife’s favorite nephew run off into the blue with a mad old hobbit and a gang of dwarves? Can’t imagine what could go wrong.”

“Well now, when you put it that way, I can see where they might kick up a bit of a fuss,” Paladin admitted. He was a Took, and listened to Bilbo's stories as eagerly as anyone in the Shire. But he was a father as well, and Frodo was still such a little lad. “Don’t supposed they’d let you adopt him, under the circs?”

“I’ve tried. Not a chance.”

Distantly, Bilbo heard a child shriek with laughter. More and more guests were arriving. All around them there was a flurry of hugs and friendly greetings. Paladin grinned and nodded in the direction of the party tree. “Look at your princes, bless them.”

Bilbo turned to look. It seemed that the children, led by young Hamson, had decided to climb the party tree. The lowest branches were at least three feet out of reach, but that was no great obstacle, since Fíli and Kíli were boosting them into the tree one by one. The small children still waiting for their turn were crowding around impatiently, clamoring to be next, while a few of the tweens tried to scramble up the trunk on their own.  As they watched, Bofur hurried up to Bilbo, hat in hand. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, sketching a brief bow to Paladin. “Bofur of Erebor, at your service.”

“Paladin son of Adalgrim at yours,” Paladin said, cheerfully. “Interrupt away.”

“Is it safe for the lads and lasses to be messing about up the tree?” he asked. “No one seems fussed, but it’d just about break my heart if anything was to happen.”

“Hobbits don’t fall out of trees,” Bilbo said dismissively.

Bofur still looked unhappy. “You’re certain?” he said. “They won’t fall?” Dwarves were fiercely protective of children, and as a general rule they preferred to keep their feet firmly on the ground. Trees and forests made them deeply uncomfortable.

“I promise,” Bilbo said. “Even _I_ don’t fall out of trees, and I’m quite possibly the clumsiest hobbit in the Shire when it comes to heights and climbing. Something to do with clinging to mountainsides and being dangled off battlements, I expect.”

Bofur left, casting occasional anxious glances at the hobbit children scrambling around in the lower boughs.

“It’s a shame about Rory and Gilda,” Paladin said once Bofur was gone. “Your lad would come home with such tales to tell. Wearing velvet and ermine like a proper little princeling, if your king had his way.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to protest—Thorin belonged to no one, after all!—but Paladin didn’t let him get a word in edgewise.

“Well, I suppose it’s none of my business. Why don’t I go and see what sort of trouble my Pearl is getting herself into, eh?” He wandered off, whistling, and left Bilbo feeling distinctly wrong-footed. He had taken it for granted that his friends and neighbors would glower and mutter disapprovingly about the dwarves, and he had been entirely prepared to tell them all to go stuff themselves. Instead, with the likely exception of Mr. Burrows the blacksmith, it seemed as if all of Hobbiton was head over heels for them. It was too good to be true.  Indeed, no sooner had he wandered off than Bilbo was mobbed by half a dozen of his relatives, all of them demanding to know about the dwarves—their names, and where they had come from, and how long they were staying, and was one of them really a king? Bilbo answered their questions as patiently as he could. Luckily, Frodo appeared before he lost his temper and shouted at the inquisitive Mrs. Goodbody, who was wheedling out which of the dwarves were married—precisely how wealthy they all were, and how respectable their families were accounted to be.

“Time for presents!” Frodo said, ducking between Mrs. Goodbody and old Prisca Bolger. “Come on, uncle. I’ve got one for you, too.” He took Bilbo’s hand, and they made good their escape by heading to the picnic tables. “Were they bothering you?” Frodo asked as they walked. “You had your Sackville-Baggins look.”

“I didn’t know I had a Sackville-Baggins look,” Bilbo said.

Frodo stopped in his tracks, planting himself squarely in front of Bilbo. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and scowled. “It looks like that,” he said. “Am I scary?”

“Terrifying,” Bilbo assured him. “I have a newfound respect for Lobelia, if she’s faced with that every time she catches me unawares.”

Presents were opened, to universal delight. Bilbo had made sure that Frodo had plenty of money to buy his friends whatever he liked, and there were enough old mathoms in Bag End for a dozen such parties. Soon afterward the empty luncheon dishes were cleared from the tables, and the desserts brought out: one enormous blueberry pie, and a small mountain of pudding, and enough dozen blackcurrant scones to feed an army. When there was nothing left but crumbs, the adults drifted apart into groups of four and five, and the children returned to their games. The afternoon slipped by, warm and bright.

The dwarves, after making such an amiable first impression, had retreated to a table apart from the rest. Bilbo let them be. If they wanted to chat, they were perfectly capable of striking up conversations themselves—and he certainly couldn’t blame them if they needed some peace and quiet. Bilbo didn’t consider himself an unsociable hobbit, but he would be the first to admit that his relatives and neighbors could be trying at the best of times.  Bilbo made vague excuses to Prisca Bolger, who had caught him unawares while he was nibbling on a blackberry scone, and drifted over to where the dwarves were sitting. Thorin was deep in discussion with his nephews, probably about their plans to visit Dís in Ered Luin. The boys were leaving on the morrow, and Bofur would soon be heading in the opposite direction, back over to Bree to give Dwalin all the news. But Thorin broke off his discussion long enough to smile at Bilbo as he approached, and moved over so that he could settle down beside him.

Something about his easy smile struck Bilbo as entirely wonderful. He interrupted their debate with a few suggestions of his own, namely about road choices and the quickest routes to take out of the Shire, taking into account the newly-fired curiosity of every hobbit from Hobbiton to Little Delving, all of whom would be inclined to stop and chat. Soon enough, they were interrupted again, this time by no personage less than Ms. Estella Bolger herself, who stood imperiously at Fili’s side and stared up at him, tugging on his tunic until he noticed her.

“We’re playing orcs and wargs,” she said. Her wild brown curls had been carefully tied back with a ribbon, but an hour of running and shrieking and climbing trees had ruined her mother’s hard work. “But Bull is guarding the tree, so it’s safe there. Do you want to play?”

Fíli shook his head. “I’m not very good at that game,” he said, wryly. “I’ve gotten caught by wargs one too many times, I’m afraid.”

The girl took notice of his scars for the first time. “Oh,” she breathed. “Is that—?”

Fíli rubbed a hand along one side of his face. “Yes,” he said.

“Did it hurt?”

“Well, yes,” he said. “It did.”

She promptly sat down at his feet, staring up at him with huge brown eyes. “Tell me the story,” she said.

Fili opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Er,” he said. “Wouldn’t you rather I told you about something less—bloody?”

“No,” she said, petulantly. “Wargs.”

Rosamunda Bolger detached herself from her husband’s family and hurried over. “Oh, please forgive Estella,” she said, trying to tug her daughter back to her feet. “She’s always causing trouble, and asking questions she shouldn’t.”

“What? Oh, I don’t mind,” Fili said. “It’s a good story. I just don’t want to scare her.”

“Mama, let go,” Estella said, pulling out of her mother’s grasp. “I promise I won’t get scared!”

“You say that now, but just wait until you go to bed. You’ll sit up all night for fear of wolves prowling out in the garden, and I for one don’t want to spend my morning with a grumpy little hobbit lass who hasn’t gotten her sleep.”

“Please, mama! I’ll go to bed early and I won’t be grumpy at all and I’ll help you with the mending—”

Kíli joined in her pleading, pointedly ignoring Fíli kicking him under the table. United, Estella and Kili proved too much even for Rosamunda’s heart—which was in fact about as soft as buttermilk, at least when it came to her Estella’s love for stories. “Yes, yes, all right. That’s quite enough.” She sat down at a nearby table and let Estella clamber into her lap. “Tell your story, Master Dwarf. She’ll give neither of us a moment’s peace until you do.”

Fíli conceded with good grace. He shared his brother’s love of theatrics, though he indulged himself in songs and wild tales less often than Kili did. “It was a bleak evening,” he began, “and the ponies had been restless ever since we left my cousin’s home in the Iron Hills. I’d been sent to pay him a visit, but after six months Dain was sick of me and I was sick of Dain, so we parted ways and I made my way home to my uncle’s kingdom. Early one night, when the moon was rising over the mountain, we heard howls in the distance—”

“Oh, are you telling a story?” Hamson Gamgee asked, breathlessly. He was the chief orc, but he’d given up on chasing Frodo and had returned to the tables in hopes of finding a piece of pie or an overlooked scone. “Is it a good one?”

“It’s about wargs,” Estella informed him, smugly. “Real ones.”

That was even better than a blackberry scone. Hamson joined their little group, and Fíli obligingly started the story over again. Not for the last time; it took him a dozen false starts before the last of the children had gathered around. A fair number of their parents were lurking well within earshot, pretending that they weren’t paying attention and failing miserably. Mrs. Goodbody, standing the farther away and straining to hear every word, shushed her husband every time he tried to speak.

“It’s almost time for supper,” he said, fiddling anxiously with the hem of his waistcoat. “Really, dear, we should start heading home—”

“I’m trying to listen,” Mrs. Goodbody hissed. “Be quiet! The wargs have just killed the last of the guards—what dreadful creatures! And those silly ponies bolted with all the weapons and baggage, so it’s looking quite hopeless.”

Mr. Goodbody resigned himself to a late supper.

“—and so my brother got me back to the mountain and the healers patched me up, and I didn’t even lose my eye,” Fíli finished at long last. “And I’ve never had to visit my boring old cousin since, so all’s well that ends well.”

When it was clear that no further stories were forthcoming, the children immediately set to recreating the battle. A fierce argument broke out as to who would be the dwarves, but it was Frodo’s birthday so of course he had to be Fíli, and he picked Estella to be Kíli because she had found a stick that looked like a sword and was waving it around with great aplomb.

It was, in short, the best birthday party any of the children had ever attended, and it lasted well into the evening. But eventually parents began to drag their yawning children home, despite the inevitable protests. The sun vanished below the horizon, shadows lengthening on the grass and the clouds glowing blue and purple, shot through with streaks of glowing orange. The fireflies came out, drifting lazily over the field like little sparks, and a few bats swooped overhead, small black shadows darting and fluttering in the fading light.

Still, a few stragglers remained. “It’s no fair,” one little boy said as his parents said their goodbyes to Bilbo and Frodo. “Frodo’s caught three fireflies and I haven’t caught any yet!”

Bell Gamgee met with similar resistance. “I’m not even tired yet,” Hamson protested. “Daisy and May are just babies, but can’t me and Hal stay for a little longer?”

“You can help your father with the tables. But mind you don’t take advantage of Mister Baggins’ hospitality! He’s far too good to you as it is.”

“Oh, they’re no trouble,” Bilbo said. He was carrying little May Gamgee in his arms; she had fallen asleep in the party tree, and Bofur had been the one to find her, curled up in the fork of two sturdy branches and snoring gently. The poor dwarf had almost fainted when he saw her, convinced that she was going to fall to her death any second. “No, no, don’t worry—I can carry her. I mean, in your condition—”

“Mister Baggins, I’m pregnant,” she said. “I’m not about to faint or have a fit. But it’d be a pity to wake her, and if you don’t mind taking her back to our house, it would be a kindness.”

The dwarves were helping Hamfast Gamgee with the picnic tables. They were too heavy for even four sturdy hobbits to carry without much huffing and puffing, but Fíli and Kíli could easily lift one, and Thorin was strong enough that he and Hamfast could manage quite nicely on their own.

“What dear helpful fellows,” Bell said. She’d grown quite fond of the dwarves, though her husband still muttered that they were mighty strange folk, and not at all respectable. “It must be a joy to have them as houseguests.”

“Oh, yes,” said Bilbo. “Clattering around in the kitchen in the mornings, and eating everything in sight, and dripping trails of water through the house after baths because they don’t dry their hair properly—”

Bell laughed. “You don’t fool me for one moment, Mister Baggins. Make sure May has her little toy rabbit when you put her to bed, will you? She’ll fuss without it.”

The evening deepened as Bilbo walked up the path, May still fast asleep in his arms, away from the last of the hustle and bustle.

“I don’t actually like children, you know,” he told her. She didn’t stir. “Nuisances, the lot of you. Running around and shrieking. Fussing at all hours of the day and night. Waking up with nightmares, demanding tea and hugs. Getting sick, and getting lost, and getting tangled up in thorn bushes. It’s a prodigious amount of bother.”

The Gamgees’ modest home—too small for a family of six, and Bilbo hadn’t the slightest idea how they would fit in a seventh—was only two holes down from Bag End. Soon he had May settled in her little cot; lovingly carved wooden letters, painted and hung on the wall, read _May Elisa Gamgee_.  Bilbo found her old toy rabbit lying on the floor, though he wouldn’t have known it was a rabbit if he hadn’t been told; little bits of fluff and stuffing were all that remained of its ears, and half the stitches had ripped out of the thin, faded fabric. Bilbo tucked it beside May and quietly slipped away, trying not to wake her.

Bell appeared just as he was leaving, her eldest daughter clinging to her skirts as she unlatched the door. “Thank you,” Bell said, “for the party. And for looking after May. You’re a good sort, Mister Baggins, even if Hamfast is right, and you aren’t particularly respectable.”  Bilbo smiled a little at that, and was halfway out the door when she added: “And it was nice of Mister Rory and Mistress Menegilda to stop by, wasn’t it? Only it’s a shame they came so late in the evening.”

Bilbo stopped in his tracks. “Rory and Gilda are here?”

“Oh, I suppose you wouldn’t have seen them, would you? You were helping with the tables, and saying goodbyes, and then you were looking after May. I suppose they came to say hello to Frodo.”

“Yes,” said Bilbo, an uncomfortable sinking feeling settling in his stomach. “I suppose they did.”

He hurried down the road and back to the party field, but he had the nasty suspicion that he was too late. He was right. Raised voices tore through the empty field, and Bilbo could see a few very distinctive figures standing by the hedge that ran along the road. One was Thorin. The other was Menegilda Brandybuck. As he drew closer, he saw that a handful of bystanders were clustered nearby, watching the confrontation with interest.

“He’s a Brandybuck,” Menegilda was saying, “and he’s only a little boy. He ought to be with his family, not gadding about with troublemakers and vagrants!”

“He has a family,” Thorin said, stiffly. “Bilbo looks after him. Frodo is happy here.”

“And how long will it be before he goes gadding off and leaves the poor boy to fend for himself? Mark my words, one day we’ll wake up and Mister Baggins will be long gone. No note, no warning. Gone, just like last time! He’ll wander off to visit elves or trolls, and like as not he’ll get lost in the Old Forest and never be seen again.”

Bilbo hurried up to stand beside Thorin. A small hand clutched at his, and he looked down to see Frodo huddled at Thorin’s side.

“Now, Gilda, be reasonable,” Bilbo said, trying to hide his irritation and not succeeding. “If you want to come inside and have a cup of tea, we can talk this over—”

Menegilda swelled with indignation. “You use that dwarf to bully me into giving up Frodo, and you tell me to be reasonable? You’ve got a lot of nerve, Bilbo Baggins!”

“I haven’t the foggiest notion what you’re talking about,” Bilbo said. “Thorin is my guest. A very respectable dwarf—”

“Oh, and do you really expect me to trust a band of vagabond blacksmiths to look after my nephew?”

“You haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about—”

“What would his mother say, if she were alive?”

“—and who gave you permission to come stomping up to Hobbiton, anyway?”

“As if this whole mess wasn’t Drogo Baggins’ fault to begin with? Going boating on the Brandywine at night, what a ridiculous thing to do—”

“He only ever wanted to keep Prim happy, and if anyone’s responsible for what happened, I daresay—”

“Enough!” said Thorin, in a voice like thunder. Everyone, from Bilbo to Menegilda to the whispering bystanders, immediately fell silent. “You’re upsetting Frodo,” he said, a little more quietly.

Menegilda recovered first. “Oh, my poor dear boy,” she said, hurrying forward. “Come home with us, and I’ll make you a nice cup of hot milk, and you can go straight to bed. You must be so tired.”

Frodo clung to Bilbo’s hand with sudden desperation, shaking his head.

“There, you see?” Bilbo said. “He doesn’t want to leave.”

The other three dwarves had arrayed themselves behind Thorin and Bilbo, and one or two of the hobbits were drifting in his direction, too. Even Rory was looking uncomfortable.

Menegilda was perfectly aware that she was outnumbered. But she only straightened her shoulders and said, with great dignity, “If you are trying to intimidate me, Mr. Baggins, I promise you disappointment. Brandybucks are made of sterner stuff than you seem to think. I’ll march right down to the Mayor and have him call up the shirriffs, see if I don’t!”

“You go ahead and do that,” Bilbo said, but he lacked conviction. It was clear that she had come to Hobbiton with the sole intention of reclaiming her nephew, and she wasn't one to leave a job unfinished. Even if Frodo didn’t want to leave, Bilbo had no legal right to keep him; no doubt Menegilda had all the legal papers in perfect order, stamped and signed in red ink. She was at perfectly liberty to demand his return. There was nothing Bilbo could do to stop it. And did he even have a right to try? Perhaps Menegilda was right, and Frodo would be better off with his proper family.

Menegilda’s voice gentled. “You must understand,” she said. “I only want what’s best for him. Isn’t that what you want, too?”

Before Bilbo could think of a response to that, Frodo tugged on his hand.

“It’s all right, uncle,” he said. “I don’t want to be a bother. I guess I could go with Aunt Menegilda for a little bit, if she wants me to.”

Bilbo closed his eyes for a moment. “You’re not a bother at all,” he said. “And you’ll always be welcome in Bag End, do you hear? Any day of the week, even if I’m not around. You know where the spare key is.”

He hugged Frodo, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and didn’t protest when Menegilda took Frodo gently by the hand and led him away.

“You can send his things to Brandy Hall,” she said, and then she was gone, Rory and Frodo trailing in her wake.

* * *

Practically everyone had gone home. Bilbo, the dwarves, and a handful of hobbits remained. For a long, uncomfortable stretch, no one spoke.

Then Bilbo straightened up, and said “Well. That’s that, I suppose. I’m dreadfully sorry for all the trouble, but I’m feeling rather tired. I suppose you all can see yourselves home?”

Paladin nodded. “Of course, cousin. I’ll drop by and visit tomorrow, shall I? Good night, everyone.”

There was a general chorus of “good nights”, and Paladin took his leave, carrying Pearl securely in his arms. She was crying. Hamson Gamgee was hurried away by his father, who kept glancing back at Bilbo with a worried look on his open, honest face.

Rosa left soon after; she carried Estella, and Bullroarer padded along behind them. They were the last of the guests. She turned around just as she reached the road, and caught a glimpse of Bilbo as he leaned heavily into Thorin’s embrace, the other dwarves crowding around.

Paladin held the gate open for Rosa, and exchanged a long look with her as she passed. A certain understanding sparked between them, and she nodded tightly before turning away. Neither of them said a word.

It was full dark, so no one could see it, but Rosa’s cheeks were flushed. Her teeth were gritted so hard that her jaw ached. She walked briskly, her skirts snapping, her hands clenching convulsively on the soft cotton of her daughter’s dress.

She had never been so angry in her life.


	9. along the rivers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very sweet reviewer asked me to write another chapter of this fic, so here it is, crawling out of the past like a bad penny. 
> 
> To recap: after Frodo's early birthday party, which was a success even with the addition of a few gatecrashing dwarves, Rory and Menegilda Brandybuck arrived to demand the return of their beloved nephew. (After all, look what happened the last time dwarves turned up on the doorstep of Bag End!) Thorin stepped up as an unexpected mediator between Bilbo and Menegilda, and Frodo, worried that he might get Bilbo into trouble, reluctantly agreed to go back to Brandy Hall. 
> 
> As an aside, Saradoc and Esmeralda (who appear in this chapter) are Merry Brandybuck's parents. I guess it's no surprise where Merry gets his love of water and boating from!

Thorin walked along the bank of the Bywater, humming an old familiar tune. Had he learned it from his grandmother, or was it one of the mining songs from Ered Luin? The stars were bright above him. Whenever he sent a pebble splashing into the stream, reflected light rippled along the water.

He caught a glimpse of yellow through the trees: the lanterns of Frogmorton, according to the maps he’d seen in Bilbo’s study. The Bywater skirted the village, so Thorin did the same, but stopped in his tracks when the underbrush along the far side of the water began rustling.

He waited.

A small voice piped, “Who’s there?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be with your aunt?” Thorin said, eyes fixed on the bushes.

A moment later, Frodo darted forward out of the thicket and splashed across the water. Seconds later, a dripping wet hobbit lad was clinging to Thorin, babbling too fast for comprehension. It never occurred to him to ask how Thorin had found him, or what he was doing out so late at night, and so far from Bag End.

As it happened, their meeting owed as much to Bilbo as to Thorin. Almost as soon as the door of Bag End had shut behind them, Bilbo had said that Menegilda wouldn’t be able keep Frodo in Buckland for long—supposing, of course, that she could get him there at all.  

“He can be dreadfully stubborn,” Bilbo had said, his voice only slightly unsteady. Then, rounding on the dwarves, he said “Do you want tea? Don’t be ridiculous, of course you do,” and stomped off to the kitchen. There was a tremendous clatter of pots and pans, and slamming cupboard drawers, and a muttering fuss as the fire was lit.

Thorin excused himself soon after that, although not before telling Bilbo that he was going for a walk, and would certainly be back before dawn. “There’s no point in letting Frodo spend a miserable night in some muddy ditch between Hobbiton and Buckland,” he said, and despite everything, the corners of eyes Bilbo’s crinkled with a smile.

So Thorin had walked for hours along the Bywater, making just enough racket to attract the attention of any young hobbits hiding where they shouldn’t be. Now, with Frodo in hand, he settled down on the cold ground, Frodo clinging to him like a limpet. “Hush,” he said, his hands warm and reassuring on Frodo’s shoulders. “There. That’s a good lad. Now tell me again. Slowly, this time.”

Frodo took a deep breath and plunged into his story. As far as Thorin could make out, Frodo had waited until Menegilda was drowsing in her carriage on the road back to Buckland. Then, when the horses stopped for a drink of water, he bolted out the carriage door.

Old Rory had seen him, but then he had pretended to be sleeping himself. “So I don’t think he’s going to tell, but even if he does, I won’t go back,” Frodo said, half in tears. “I hate it at Brandy Hall. It’s loud and confusing and nobody listens to me, and Aunt Gilda hates my stories, and she says mean things about my da when she thinks I’m not listening. And she’ll never let me see Uncle Bilbo again, or Estella, or Hamson. Or you!”

Thorin considered for a moment. Then he said, “You know, I ran away once, too, when I was about your age.”

Frodo looked incredulous, but Thorin nodded solemnly. “I did. For almost three days. Then my father’s guardsmen found me and dragged me back to Erebor.” _And I was beaten for being disobedient, and for distracting the guards from their duties, and for worrying my grandmother_ , he almost added, but he caught himself at the last moment. Somehow he couldn’t see the kindly, potbellied folk of the Shire wielding cane or lash with any kind of conviction, and the last thing Frodo needed was something else to worry about. At any rate, Frodo seemed to take the story as a sign that Thorin was a confederate, a fellow lawbreaker, fleeing from hearth and home. He edged closer, and Thorin wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“I picked out presents for everyone,” said Frodo, shivering in his sodden clothes. “Bilbo made scones, and Estella came, and there were orcs and wargs. But now I can’t ever go back to Hobbiton, or else Aunt Gilda will call the sherriffs. She said so.”

Thorin let Frodo huddle even closer, until he was practically curled up in Thorin’s lap. It was getting on to midnight when Frodo finally worked up the courage to ask “Are you and Uncle Bilbo going to go back to the mountain together?”

“No,” Thorin said. “I must go back, sooner or later. But Bilbo wouldn’t leave you.”

“But they took me away from him.”

“Your uncle promised to look after you. It would take more than a few angry gentlefolk to make him break a promise.” 

“I think you’re just saying that to make me feel better,” said Frodo stubbornly. “Grown-ups lie all the time, because think that helps. But it doesn’t.”

“Indeed it does not, and it would be foolish to believe otherwise. Do you take me for a fool, Frodo Baggins? No? Then you must take me at my word.”

Frodo picked up a smooth, flat stone and tried to skip it into the stream. It landed with a plunk, and the bullfrogs croaked in disapproving chorus at the disturbance. He tried again, with no more success. “It’s no fair,” he said again, slumping back against Thorin.

“You’re right,” Thorin said. “It’s not fair.”  More than once, he had been tempted to bring Bilbo and Frodo with him back to Erebor, and let the other hobbits fuss as they pleased. Frodo had already been dragged all over the Shire like a sack of potatoes, with no one except Bilbo taking the time to ask him what he thought about it. Erebor could scarcely be worse, if only because he would be there by choice. Something to think on. Perhaps, in a few years. . .

It was late. The water rushed over its rocky bed, endlessly soothing. Soon Frodo began to yawn, and before long he was a slumbering weight in Thorin’s arms. With a sigh, Thorin picked him up, settling the small boy in his arms.

It was going to be a long walk to Buckland.

 

* * *

 

When Old Rory invited his son and daughter-in-law over for afternoon tea, it was with every drop of cunning and duplicity that he could muster. Which is to say that he didn’t fool them for a moment. In his younger days, Rory had always been an honest and straightforward hobbit, and nothing changed as he marched steadily toward middle age.  

“Why don’t you come over and meet the lad?” he asked, with an unconvincingly absent air. Supposedly he had come to admire Esmeralda’s new boat, which had a clever little suit of fore-and-aft sails and was the envy of the entire Brandybuck clan.

Saradoc, kneeling on the dock and sorting through a tangle of line, gave his father a deeply skeptical look, but otherwise made no comment.

Rory shuffled his feet along the dock. The wooden planks, worn smooth with age, were comfortably familiar. “Well, maybe _meet_ isn’t the right word, seeing as you’ve known him since he was a wee little thing. I only meant it in the sense of a visit, you understand. To welcome him back into the bosom of the family, as it were. That’s how your mother put it."

The worst of the mess sorted out, Saradoc began coiling, his calloused hands running along the line with the ease of long practice.

Rory pressed on. “In fact, as it happens, Gilda and I were hoping that you and Esmeralda might look after young Frodo. Just for a while, until he’s settled. I’m sure he’d be no trouble at all.”

“I knew it,” Saradoc said, and flipped the finished coil over with a flourish. “See here, if mama was so keen to steal him back from cousin Bilbo, why can’t she look after him?”

“Oh, as to that,” said Rory, abandoning all attempt at pretense, “it’s a proper mess, and I don’t mind saying so. Frodo won’t even talk to her, except to say _yes_ and _no_ and sometimes _good morning, aunt_ , when he’s sleepy and hasn’t quite remembered that he’s angry. Surely you heard about the night of the party?”

“Which bit?”

“Well, he ran off at Frogmorton, didn’t he?  Would’ve skipped back to Hobbiton first thing in the morning if Bilbo's dwarf fellow hadn't found him, and caught up with us a little east of Whitfurrows.  Asked us if he and his family might stop by next week for a visit, if you can believe it! I said yes—thought it might cheer Frodo up a bit.  But visiting dwarves or no, he's miserable.  Just like he was after Prim and Drogo died.  Gilda’s can’t decide whether to write Bag End asking for Bilbo’s advice or for his head on a platter.”

“There’s always that silver service that Bilbo inherited from old Fortinbras,” Saradoc said helpfully, but he relented when his father scowled down at him, brows furrowed against the afternoon sun. “Of course we’ll do whatever we can,” he said, a little more seriously. “But we’ll have one of our own to look after soon enough, and Emmy’s already having a hard time of it.  We could have him down for an afternoon or two. I don’t suppose—” He looked reflectively at the boat, tied up beside them and moving gently in the current, looking bright and cheerful against the water.   “Not after his parents.”

“No,” Rory said, following his son’s gaze. “Best to keep him off the water. Goodness knows he gets into enough trouble running hither and yon on solid land. Do you think your brother might take him?”

Saradoc shook his head. “He spends more time in Northfarthing than he does at home, and he’s too busy courting his pretty lady to look after a child.”

“Bother. It’s always something, isn’t it? Well, come up for tea anyway,” said Rory.   “And who knows? Maybe he’ll settle down in time. He is a Brandybuck, after all.”

But he’s a Baggins, too, Saradoc thought, as he and Rory trudged up the long sloping hill toward Brandy Hall. And no one could beat a Baggins for stubbornness.

Saradoc would never admit it, but he had the quiet suspicion that Frodo would outlast them all.


End file.
